


Need

by copperbadge



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-04
Updated: 2006-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Norrington <i>will</i> have Will Turner, whatever he must do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

Norrington had, at first, intended to adopt the lad himself. 

He seemed a sturdy boy, obviously handy, and could carry Norrington's hat and sword and the like. Then, of course, as the days a-shipboard passed on their way to Port Royal, he realised what an enormous task it was to raise a child, and quite out of the question if he wished to achieve his ambitions in a timely manner. Besides, the cost of feeding and clothing the boy, even on a Lieutenant's salary, was outlandish. 

All the sailors liked the youngester, no denying. Though the bo'sun would have fitted him for a Naval Officers' uniform, Norrington thought he was rather more clever than that; when a position was found with a blacksmith and arms-maker in port, he felt that would suit Will better. Of course, the fact that he himself did like Will as well, and was loathe to see him sail out of port, did not bear on it at all. Dear me, no. A Naval Lieutenant bucking for Commodore one day had to be impartial and objective.

He knew that the blacksmith Brown had shaky hands from the DT, and he knew that Will suffered some of his master's ire at the world -- but not more than any tradesman's 'prentice did, and Will also had the patronage of a Royal Navy officer to keep him from losing all hope. Brown wasn't untalented by any means, and he managed -- in his slurred, unsteady way -- to pass the knowledge on to young Turner. 

Spurred on by taunts from the other 'prentices and driven by something Norrington would not understand until that day on the embankment when Jack Sparrow escaped, Will became a fine craftsman. He hung about the barracks, as well, picking up the rudiments of fighting from the soldiers and the rest from books, 'borrowed' off Norrington's shelves on the many occasions Norrington had reason to send for the boy. They were always returned, the coal-smudges wiped off but still just barely visible, and Norrington convinced himself they were dust-marks from the shelves. After all, it wouldn't do for a Naval Lieutenant bucking for Commodore to turn a blind eye to pilfering, however insignificant and temporary.

It was uncertain how Blacksmith Brown got the job of rebuilding the Port Royal military cells after the old ones began to crumble from rust, but Will handled them deftly at the age of fifteen, and if Brown had not intended them to be his Journeyman's piece, nobody questioned his entry into the Journeyman's ranks in the town ledger, the day after the work was completed. 

He commissioned a fine ceremonial dagger from Will as his Master's piece, as Brown showed no inclination to assign the lad one. It was Will's twentieth birthday when it was delivered.

"Blacksmith Turner to see you, sir," the valet said, and Norrington gestured that the younger man should enter. Will stopped in front of his desk and presented the case to him formally. 

"Will you show it to me, Will?" Norrington asked, pleased at the way questions asked of the boy always ended symmetrically. He liked neatness and symmetry. 

Will nodded -- he'd been a quiet boy, and was still so as a man -- and opened the box, flicking the catch with fingers surprisingly nimble, for a blacksmith. A swordsmith, that was what he ought to call himself, Norrington thought; it sounded more elegant. Still, one couldn't survive exclusively making swords, certainly not in Port Royal. In London, a man of Will's talents would be highly prized, but Norrington had never found the right way to tell him that. It seemed like it would feed his ego.

And it had nothing to do with what Norrington thought of slim, tall, well-balanced, _symmetrical_ William Turner.

"Folded steel, ground on the finest whetstone, practically sharpened on silk," Will said, falling into the comfortable tradesman's patter that hid his ultimate shyness. "The handle is inlaid with silver and ebony, in the pattern you requested, and the ceremonial sheath is of the finest leather. I selected the leather myse -- that is to say, it is the finest piece to be found in Port Royal's markets. The silk sash is imported from the East -- "

"Yes, very good," Norrington cut him short, and saw the light of pleasure in Will's eyes flicker. " _Show it_ to me, Will."

Will swallowed, unsheathed the dagger, and held it firmly in his right hand. With a deft flick of his fingers, he somehow spun the blade across his hand by the hilt, the pommel flashing light from the wide, open windows onto the ceiling. The dagger spun all the way across the back of his hand, urged on by the knuckles, and then when it must fall, he slid his palm over and up, capturing it. 

There was not a quiver of the blade as he held it. Norrington smiled.

"It will do," he said, holding out his hand. Will dropped the dagger into it. The silk tassel on the hilt fell between two of his fingers. He laid it in the box, closed it, and stood. 

"I have not settled my accounts this year," he said, rising and crossing to a small chest on his bookshelf. "And I do not foresee any more business with Blacksmith Brown before New Year's."

"No Christmas business, sir?" Will asked, before realising how rude it sounded. Norrington paused.

"Has business been less than brisk?" he asked.

"I am sure you're not interested in a tradesman's woes," Will said quickly. 

"I am always," Norrington remarked slowly, "Interested in your welfare, Will."

"And I'm sure you've been very good to me, and I'm very grateful," said the blacksmith. 

Norrington shut the chest without taking any cash from it, and walked around his desk, holding out his hand. Will looked at it, perplexed.

"Give me your hand, Turner," Norrington said sharply. Will extended his left hand, palm up, and Norrington took his wrist. 

"A blacksmith rarely has such clean hands as yours. Nor calloused in these places," he said. 

"I make a point to be tidy when presenting commissions," Will muttered.

"All your commissions, Will Turner?"

Will met his eyes. "All the commissions I present to yourself, sir, and to the Governor."

"Any particular reason I merit the same rank as Governor Swann?"

Will swallowed. "As I said, Sir, I'm very grateful for all you've done for me."

He was breathing hard, and trembling as he had not trembled when handling a sharp blade across his fingers. Norrington watched as he licked his lips unconsciously. He let his thumb slide across the sword-callouses on Will's palm.

"And is that all?" he asked softly, as Will closed his eyes and drew breath. 

"I am afraid I do not understand your question, sir," Will replied.

"Will you accept nothing more than my patronage, Will?"

"It is not a craftsman's place to accept anything more from -- "

There was a small, unshaven patch of beard just below Will's lower lip, and Norrington's lip brushed it when he kissed him. He could feel the blacksmith's body, wound tighter than a clockwork spring, as he wrapped his other hand around the back of Will's neck, using his right hand, still clamped around Will's left, to draw him close. 

Will smelled like dust and iron and fire, and he tasted better than Norrington had imagined. Especially as his lips were sliding apart, accepting the kiss, his body still taut but giving with every guiding touch of the other man's body. And Norrington knew where he was guiding them; the bedchamber that attended his office, a private and comfortable place. 

***

"Will!"

Will Turner had two goals in life: to be the perfect swordsman and to hear Elizabeth Swann say his name in just that fashion, every day, for the rest of his life. There was just a hint of plea in it, a request that he stop, and turn, and say hello to her.

So he stopped.

And turned.

"Hello, Miss Swann," he said, shyly. She was wearing something nicer than the usual clothes her father ordered from London; looser-fitting and appropriate for a visit to the dress and millinery shops and tea cafes that lined the street down to his -- he corrected himself, down to Blacksmith Brown's smithy, before the real market began. Elizabeth would never go to the real market, with its live chickens and fresh fruits in barrels and shouting merchants. It was a shame; he had a hint of a feeling that she would like them. Still, the daughter of the Governor did not Go To The Market like a Common Servant (or Blacksmith).

"Fancy meeting you here," Miss Swann said, even as her maid -- who was well aware of the dangers of Fraternizing with Tradesmen -- was pulling her away. "Are you in this part of town often?"

"Only when business takes me, Miss," he replied. Women were mysterious in the extreme, and Norrington's tutelage, while pleasant enough, had not extended much to the fairer sex. "I am sure you must enjoy it a great deal."

"By which I infer that you do not?" she asked lightly. He felt himself flush. "Don't be embarrassed, Will, I am sure I was only joking," she added. He tightened his grip on the bundle of scrap iron under his arm and, after a confused moment, gave her what he was sure was an absurd little bow. 

"I'm sorry, Miss Swann, but I'm wanted at the Smithy," he stuttered. 

"How many times must I ask you to call me Elizabeth, Will?"

He studied his shoes. "At least once more, as always."

***

He did not see, as he hurried off with the scraps under his arm and rust rubbing on his workman's shirt, that a Naval Officer was standing in a nearby alley, having passed up from a side-street; he did not see Elizabeth's look, nor hear the innocent remarks about himself made to her servant. 

And neither he nor Elizabeth saw the jealousy that twisted its way across Norrington's face and made his fingers twitch with the effort of not clenching. 

It was soon thereafter that Norrington decided to court Elizabeth; if Will had her he would need little else, but if she were married she would draw him to Norrington's house and would, in addition, be forever unavailable to satisfy Will's need for her. 

And he would bring that need with him when he came to Elizabeth Norrington's husband. 

In the beginning he had expected to use Will, but to give good payment for use; to teach him to be skilled and to understand the delicate balances of power between two men who shared bodies instead of just pleasantries. He had done so with the boys who came before Will, after all -- Mogeridge, Gillette, a few others. When the teaching was done, when they were no longer innocent, he would have no more use for them, except as they had served him in the first place. It was not always unpleasant. Gillette was as capable and loyal a right-hand as one could wish. 

Instead, he found that Will was already skilled, at least with his hands; he needed little teaching -- he was too clever. And the little teaching that he received did not dull him to Norrington as it had the others. Instead he grew more intriguing. He was a mystery. He never spoke of his life, his home before Port Royal, or of his prenticeship past what Norrington had gathered from questions.

Will was closed to him, and fascinating, and Norrington did not tire of him.

And he would not let Elizabeth have him, if he could help it.

END


End file.
